His Ebony Queen And His Ivory Knight
by Cordelia Gainsborough
Summary: Does Chris Redfield dare to dream, when at last he dreams to dare? And when dreams are all but lost, can another be found again in the arms of his Ebony Queen... or his Ivory Knight? Please read and review. I look forward to your input.
1. His Ebony Queen And His Ivory Knight

**His Ebony Queen And His Ivory Knight.**

_A mature discourse by THE SUPREME ASHEN-WHITE W-O-U-N-D_

"ROAR! ME AM SHEVA ALLOMAR!" the dusky woman shrieked, hurling an ancient ceremonial mask she had bought at Pier 1 at the fleeing Chris. The combination of being a mere woman and being from the darkest uncivilized regions of the world, far from the light of humanity's loving lover's glow, had been too much. She was an animal of pure rage now, as fierce and erratic as her cousin the wood ape. Her strength was borne of unevolved fury and muscles that strained like leashed zombie dobermans underneath their pall of ink-black skin. Chris had worried about this. One half of her had been cultured, civilized, ready for a tea party at a moment's notice. The other... it was a hellbeast, a thing that even the awesome power of the T-virus could never hope to unleash. She shrieked in Chris's face, a shrill, piercing, inhuman noise. Her eyes were fixed on his, black with fury, as she reached up from her crotch and daubed her menstrual warpaint upon her face. She unleashed a fierce set of Miami Claps, buttocks striking together like Thor's own hammerblows.

Jill Valentine sat sullenly in the corner, a lank lock of T-virus-bleached blonde hair falling across her vacant face. She had changed back into her old S.T.A.R.S. uniform from four games before, and she was dismayed to find that she had grown a little too big to pull it off any more. Her hips bubbled over the side like the top of a muffin puffs out over the svelte pastry case that it was baked in. She knew she could never tempt Chris away from his obsidian monolith of ancestral beauty. She had such good hair too. Not like Jill's, who had found clumps of it in the shower drain. It seemed that the T-virus mutagen that had rendered her brown curls into blonde tresses was now to complete its transformation into Jade Goody-esque chemo baldness. She heaved a sigh, and wished that she still had a chest implant nestling within her cleavage - a perfect excuse to ram her knee into Sheva's pearly white teeth.

Chris heard the sigh and turned to his ex-lover. He had agreed for her to stay here out of guilt for allowing her to be captured by Wesker and fed beer and cake until she would do his bidding, but it was becoming too much. Far too much. Between the two women in his life, he was finding himself

"SHEVA," said Sheva, her eyes flashing with pure rage. She arched backward, voluptuous bosoms tugging free of what little held them, and began to gag loudly. Suddenly she jerked forward and a stream of acid-yellow bile spat from her gaping maw, and onto the carpet at Chris's feet. The stench hit him like a fist and he turned sharply, tears pricking his eyes -- but were they tears of effort as he tried to stop himself vomiting, or tears of sadness that his beloved she-wife had become so feral?

"ME NAME'Z SHEVA ALLOMARRRRR," she said, trilling the final consonant with an inhuman shriek. "I BE YOUR PARDNAH CHRIS-A REDDFIEYALD."

She started gagging again, tears mingling with the dried menstrual fluid as she collapsed into further paroxysms. Chris checked his watch. It was almost ten in the morning. In three hours she would collapse into her midday nap and he would have some time to himself. Some time to breathe. Some time to wipe the stinking lumps of sick from his boots.

Some time to slip away from the ravages of the missing link that kept him chained to this flat. The Aryan princess that glowered from the corner, the caricature of a human being that vomited on his shoes and flung feces at his head when he left the toilet seat up. Their vaginas smelled like the grim reek of death, dragging him down into the abyss. He needed comfort. He needed skewering. He needed ...

"WESKER!"

Jill sprang to her feet and launched herself at him, a rocket of pure fury propelled by Jaffa Cakes and jealousy. Chris pushed her away easily and she fell to her knees, clawing at his leg. "YOU JUST WANT YOUR PRECIOUS WESKER, DON'T YOU?" she wailed, her voice piercing his eardrums like a spear chucked from Sheva's malformed hand. The skin on her grasping arms jiggled like a tetonic plate. "WELL WHY DON'T YOU GO AND FIND HIM?!"

It was all too much. With a roar, he hurdled over Jill and shouldered past Sheva, gnawing on an old bone she had located somewhere in the dank dark doominess of the flat. He ran down the stairs and into the night, not daring to look back as the harpies began to scream, a unified cacophony of anguish and impotent cunt-rage -- an impotent rage only those with dirty lady-hampers could know.

---

The alleyway behind the Umbrella Corporation's Sunglasses Hut Emporium was filled with broken things. Broken boxes. Broken pairs of sunglasses, by the hundreds upon thousands, each imperfect and unfit for the stubbly kiss of the sun.

Broken hearts and broken dreams. Broken, soaking in cloaking darkness. And sewage. This was where Albert Wesker dwelled. When he wasn't getting his beautiful Aryan dick sucked for a quarter, he bolted together cheap sunglasses on the factory floor. His days belonged to Umbrella. But his nights ... ahh. Those (and his ass) belonged to a much higher power. A much beefier power. Yes, he had his eyes set on something much bigger.

The power of love. A force from above. It thrust him forward, like a lance tearing through the sky and piercing his own heart. It was this vulgar dichotomy that made Wesker grit his teeth in anger, that drove him to destroy the humanity in himself and all others.

It speared him and spurred him, and hurled him into despair, and then joy, and then bloody rage. A rage that kept him alive, even when certain death was imminent. A rage that opened doorways into dimensions of madness that no other could enter and return from sane and able still.

He clicked another pair of shades into place, and added them to the production line.

I WILL WINNOW THESE SUNGLASSES DOWN TO NOTHING, he said, FOR IT IS MY RIGHT AND MINE ALONE.

There was a crunch of broken plastic underfoot behind him, and he turned to see none other than Chris Redfield standing there, panting, giant arms heaving like sacks of pig.

"Wesker, I... I--"

Wesker turned with a flourish, casting his jacket darker than his soul behind him, which swirled majestically in this practiced move.

They looked at each other, Wesker's glowing eyes boring through the ebony darkness of his shades. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said.

Not until they pulled their weapons out.

Coarsing with putrid viral blood, Wesker work'd his member like a true warrior.

SEVEN MINUTES, he said. SEVEN MINUTES IS ALL I CAN SPARE TO PLAY WITH YOU.

Chris knew from experience that this was more than enough. The two mortal enemies lunged at each other, cocks crashing together like angry red fireworks. Their pink tongues intertwined in a lusty ballet. Wesker's hands tore at the back of Chris's tight, bulging slacks, eager to cup the two globes of hairy, forbidden flesh secreted within.

YOU CAN'T HIDE FOREVAH, CHRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS, Wesker cried with passion.

Chris suddenly pulled back, his twelve inches of boomstick pulsing, thudding with blood and ready to burst a heavy load of ivory-perfect man-sputum. But Chris didn't want to. Not so soon. Not when they had just begun.

"Wesker, no, I... we have to slow down," Chris gasped, heady with sheer horny agony.

YOU'RE JUST DELAYING THE INEVITABLE! Wesker roared, and kicked Chris in the dick. OH HOW YOU LOVE YOUR SELF-RIGHTEOUSNESS.

Chris rolled into the fetal position, weeping huge tears openly. Wesker walked away, slowly, deliberately, each step oozing more menace than a pedofile convention in a convent filled with sexy babies. He walked slowly to the canister of Ouroboros Virus that he had kept in the middle of the production floor for safekeeping, and with a tug, jerked off the lid. It came with a squirt.

"Wesker," Chris mumbled, weakly. "What... what are you doing...?"

But Wesker would not acknowledge Chris. Chris, his ultimate enemy and perfect lover. Oh, how Wesker had a surprise for him. He clambered atop the canister, legs splayed across the opening... and bent his knees.

Until his twenty-inch Aryan manprick was submerged in the writhing blackness.

OUROBOROS WILL BE RELEASED INTO YOUR RECTUM, ENSURING COMPLETE... ANAL... SATURATION.

Wesker's lips tightened into a satisfied grimace, exposing his perfect teeth.

YOUR BEAUTIFUL ASS HAS ESCAPED THIS WINNOWING FAR TOO LONG, CHRIS REDFIELD.

He pulled his pooling coalescing writhing virulent forty inch beastcock from the barrel, and it hit the floor with a metallic thunk. Chris gasped, eyes wide with terror and arousal and began to kick his feet, to get up, to get away, to... to run to his lover? He didn't know. He couldn't think. He just continued kicking futiley at the ground in front of him.

POOR PERFORMANCE INDEED, said Wesker, slowly closing the distance between them. I WOULD EXPECT YOU TO TAKE IT LIKE A MAN, CHRIS REDFIELD.

"You're no longer a man!" cried Chris, with feeling. "You're just a... a MONSTER! One of Umbrella's experiments gone wrong!"

DON'T YOU LIKE IT CHRIS

CHRIS

I'VE HAD AN EXTREME MAKEOVER CHRIS

Chris screamed hoarsely, a cry of despair echoing around the sunglasses emporium. Wesker's cock trailed thousands of writhing black tentacles as it scraped across the metal floor, leaving a burning acid trail in its wake. Chris slowly turned over, to reveal Wesker's jewel-encrusted prize: Chris's hairy ass. Each thick black grizzled hair that peppered those forbidden orbs was like finery to Wesker's hungry gaze.

And then Wesker was upon him. Hot breath on Chris's neck. Fifty-nine inches of viral manmeat forced all the way in, ball-deep so that the two blackening coal orbs clattered against those perfect buttocks, a Newton's Cradle of the erotically damned.

THE RIGHT TO BE A SEXGOD...

The pain and the pleasure was beyond elysium. Chris did not know if he made a single sound as he was rent asunder. He felt as if he was truly taken to heaven. White gates opened around him as his brown gate opened wide for Wesker. He saw angels, and heard their chorus. Pure whiteness surrounded him.

THAT RIGHT... IS NOW MINE...

Pure whiteness spurted from him, a full tablespoonful of semen pebbledashing the floor beneath his cock.

"Wesker... stop."

REMARKABLE... RESISTING AT SUCH AN ADVANCED STAGE. COMMENDABLE, YET FUTILE. NO MORE TIMES FOR GAMES, CHRIIIIIIS. I'VE GOT WORK TO DO.

Wesker pulled himself up, but with his ubermensch strength that filled even his eighty inches, Chris was hoisted up as well, impaled upon Wesker's blackening cock. Wesker barely noticed the hefty weight of his beefy lover as he strode back to the sunglasses, and continued to clip the pieces together, placing them neatly on the production line. Chris hung there, well hung, unconscious and delirious.

Chris was fighting within. Clinging to life, and clinging to love. He knew he had to save himself... and self this beautiful Aryan love machine from _himself_. In a flash, he knew what he must do.

With a sudden wrench, Chris began to clench his sphinctre tightly, with expert precision. His ass muscles were as powerful as his arm muscles, and he was expelled across the conveyor belt with a loud pop. He turned in mid-air, catching a second wind, and landed on his feet. Wesker stared at him with awe... had he underestimated his gay lover and mortal frienemy?

"Sorry Wesker," sneered Chris, rejuvenated. "But not on my watch!"

But Wesker just smiled, serene and without worry.

SOON EVEN YOU WILL UNDERSTAND, CHRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSSS. ONE TASTE OF MY NEW COCK AND IT WILL ALL MAKE PERFECT SENSE. SIX BILLION SPERMS WILL BIRTH A NEW BALANCE... INSIDE YOUR MOUTH AND ASS

_Goddammit Wesker_, thought Chris. _He's really serious about destroying my entire ass!_

WINNOWING! shouted Wesker, as if he had just remembered the word. YOU HAVE ESCAPED MY WINNOWING FAR TOO LONG. WINNOWING!

Chris and Wesker assumed their positions, and got ready for this ultimate battle...

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	2. The Fallen Rook

**His Ebony Knight And His Ivory Queen Chapter 2: The Fallen Rook**

Helicopter Mike was a man. A man with an erotic, sick fantasy.

He had been the subject of many a video in his time. Helicopter Heineys 1-6, Chopper Cheeks Uncut, Well-Hung Blades, Cockpit Cockeaters, Black Cock Down, the David Copterfeel series - he was the star of them all, the hero of many an erotic hovertale. Among the cruisey landing pads of the now ruinous Raccoon City, he had once been a legend. The most closely guarded anuses of the town had opened to him like browning magnolia petals. And yet, despite all the fame and accolades that came from swiveling multitudes on his gyrocockter, he had always felt empty inside, like a sphincter bereft of penetration.

Until he met Chris Redfield.

Only Chris Redfield had broken down the barriers around his heart as cold as ice. He'd wielded the flame, and melted them down. In return, Mike had shared his most precious secret: The Helicopter Manoeuvre.

_The most potent sexual technique!_

This was handed down in the Chopper family, passed from father to son. And now he, Mike Chopper, had broken the ancient bonds of family to welcome the only man he could truly love, into this most elusive of arts. He, indeed, they, or, perhaps, those two, had, in fact, created together an even more beautiful technique that could only be afforded via the union of two men. Something beyond the Helicopter.

The Twin Helicopter.

He _remembered_.

That whirling beat. The thrum of sexual energy. The two sets of hips gyrating in perfect synchronicity. The two crotches pressed close. The two huge mancocks whirling around in a beautiful unison, their timing impeccable so as not to touch, but to remain at odds with each other, like the rotors of the flying machines Mike loved so dearly. It was eroticism at its most powerful: To look, but never touch. Their eyes afixed, ablaze, upon each other's beauty and masculine perfection.

It set his loins aflame like petrol poured on his musky dick, a careless match tossed on his hefty balls.

Now he sat alone in the bar, waiting on Leon S. Kennedy. Leon had offered to buy him a drink after the last mission. Mike half-heartedly hoped for a little more than that. But truly his heart wasn't in it, because he had a much beefier hart in mind.

"Chris..." he sighed to himself, over his whiskey. "Where are you, right now?"

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see the pale blue eyes of Leon S. Kennedy peering into his own intensely. Immensely.

Insensibly.

These were two lonely men, whose mission meant that they could trust nobody else. Forming relationships was difficult. Only on the battlefield did love bloom. And it was a harsh love, like black ice. If you fell, you might break something, on this love so cold and hard.

"Hey Mike," said Leon, taking the empty seat next to his. He moved his hand to Mike's knee, tenderly, gently, like a suede glove cupping a ballsack. "Still thinking about Chris, huh?"

How could he see into the murkiest muddy corners of Mike's mind like that? His pants twitched slightly at the close proximity of the other man. A stab of guilt followed, penetrating the pulsating pink rosebud of his heart. Leon was an attractive helipad to land his cockter on, yes, but he was no Chris. Chris, who handled his gearstick as efficiently and smoothly as an experienced pilot. Chris, who didn't mind him making helicopter noises with each smooth thrust up his back passage.

It was enough to break a man's heart into a twisted, blackened wreck.

"He'll always be ... a part of me," he said, at last. "I just wish I could forget sometimes. That day ..."

_The chapel was artfully decorated with colourful streamers of crepe. Paper hearts and origami helicopters hung from the rafters. Mike was resplendent in his wedding dress encrusted with black pearls and lace, the train stretching out behind him like a runway to his heart. The pews were filled with the smiling, expectant faces of friends and family. At last, Mike felt like the princess he had always known he was inside._

__

He waited for his knight at the end of the aisle. Waited as the priest nervously looked at his watch, waited as the guests became increasingly figety and began to drift away. Waited as night fell.

In a way, he had never stopped waiting.

Leon had been the one to dry his tears that night, wiping away the mascera and helping him out of his dress. Leon, and no-one else. He owed him nothing, and yet everything.

"Mike," Leon said, gently. "I can never take ... his place. But I can help you forget, if only for a moment. Please. Let me be your co-pilot for tonight."

And Mike smiled, hesitantly. Smiled and stood from his barstool, the storm inside his pants battering his wang. He took a deep breath and unzipped.

"You lookin' for firepower ... you've come to the right place," he said. The head of his bulging twelve-inch cock was doing slow rotations, like a chopper just warming up her engines. He met Leon's eyes. The blonde man immediately dropped to his knees, cradling Mike's immensity in his hands.

"Drinks are on me," he said, and swallowed all 17 hovering inches to the hilt in his tight pink mouth. Mike's knees buckled. Oh, elysium! Chris had never had such a deep throat! He caught himself before he could fall and shot Leon a sheepish grin.

"Sorry, bad traffic," he muttered. He pulled his engorged semen-powered machine out of Leon's mouth and threw the other man over the bar, jerking down both their trousers in one swift movement. His love length was rotating furiously now, faster than the eye could track, a whirl of pinkness. "I'll cover you."

He jammed his furiously vibrating member home into Leon's cave of treasures. 23 inches of weapon, filling every nook and cranny of his lover's lower intestine like a zombie hoard rampaging through a city block. Leon cried out and spread his cheeks wider, begging for more.

"Better try a new trick," he gasped, pushing harder into Mike. "'Cause that one's getting old."

Ahh, so that was his game. Mike understood completely.

With his powerful arms, Mike tore open Leon's shirt, revealing a treasure trove of trinkets and jewels.

"N-no!" Leon cried, trying to cover his most precious cargo. But it was too late.

"I should've known," said Mike. "Even now, you still belong to HIM!"

"I haven't seen the Merchant in two years. Not since... not since that incident..."

"THEN WHY DO YOU WEAR THOSE JEWELS AND FINERY! IF NOT TO LURE HIM! IF NOT... FOR _HIM_!"

"Auuuuuugh!" Leon shouted, not knowing what to say. "Uhhhgughghghh!"

They stared at each other. The world stopped. Even so, their powerful erections remained tumescent, sparkling in the bar's seamy light.

Mike was the first to break the silence.

"I... For a moment... I even thought about sharing IT with you..." Mike stammered, croaking back a single bejewelled tear, even more precious that all of Leon's hoardings. "I thought that perhaps... you... but you still belong to HIM."

"And you to HIM! Mike Chopper! We are both prisoners! To be love's bitch... is our lot in life. At least we have each other. At least, beyond our broken hearts... we can meet."

"You're so right, Leon."

They kissed. A single, sweet and lingering moment upon their lips. It tasted like engine oil poured into a used ash tray.

"You've started smoking again, Leon-chan."

Leon smirked, a long and wicked grin.

"I've always been smokin' baby... smokin'... for _you_."

And with that he took Mike into his mouth again.

"I... mmm... AHHH," said Mike, powerfully aroused.

_And thus, their roto-orgy went on long into the night._

**IN THE WEE SMALL HOURS OF THE MORNING...**

Mike awoke, covered in a thin layer of sweat and a thick layer of santorum. He took stock of his surroundings. A spartan bedroom. A collection of guns. Several pictures of the president's daughter, Ashley Graham, a most beautiful young loli. This was truly Leon's room, reflecting his personality like a magical mirror that hunts out secret truths, and exposes them for all to see.

Leon was nowhere to be found.

Mike pulled the silken sullied sheet aside, and heaved himself out of bed. His large frame ached from the night of passion, but it was oh so worth it. Their bodies had moved in time, and in space, and in rhythm. It was rhythm heaven. Mike looked down at his broad body, and surveyed the mess. His chest was drizzled in drying semen. His crotch in Leon's dinner from the other night. He detected the faint tang of microwave ready-meal chicken korma. Poor Leon... Living alone, with nobody to care for him.

Mike wandered, still naked, out of the bedroom and down the hall. There was the light of a computer monitor, pooling palely on the wall, and around the corner, there was Leon, still encrusted in finery, gold and silver, the chain of a pocket watch dangling from his puckered orifice. But other than the priceless artefacts, completely nude, and concentrating very hard on the screen, which seemed to be displaying a map.

"Leon?"

"Mike... There is something I have to tell you."

"Go on," said Mike, uncertainly, not liking the note in Leon's tone. It spoke of ill tidings, without words.

"It's about Chris."

Mike said nothing. Leon turned to him, and his shiny eyes pierced Mike's brown eyes. They shared a moment in silence. Intensity in ten cities.

"The last time I saw Chris... I implanted a homing beacon butt-plug about his person, without him realizing. You see, I knew there was going to be grave danger. It was designed to activate the moment Chris clenched in fear. And today, right now, he has experienced true terror."

Mike's face was ashen. He was overjoyed. Chris could be found. But he must be in mortal peril if he, a jaded and powerful pro-wrestler and kung-fu master, was deathly afraid.

"We have to find him," said Leon, eyes burning with a mako glow.

"My chopper is always ready," said Mike, and he meant it in more ways than one.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


End file.
